


Live from the Blue Door

by MinervaFan



Category: General Hospital
Genre: F/F, Lesbians. Disco. Lots of martinis. No actual femmeslash, though our girls have much fun together.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-22
Updated: 2006-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-02 11:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18810307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MinervaFan/pseuds/MinervaFan
Summary: A storm and a broken-down Beemer strand Tracy and Monica at the hottest lesbian night spot in three counties.





	1. Welcome to the Blue Door

**Author's Note:**

> Abject silliness involving Tracy, Monica, and a lesbian bar. Warnings: Lesbians. Disco. Lots of martinis. No actual femmeslash, though our girls have much fun together.

_The door to the Blue Door Café was not blue, actually, nor did it lead to a café. The door itself was teal with flecks of gold that shimmered in the light from the lamps in the parking lot, and it led into one of the hottest, and least known to outsiders, lesbian bars in the tri-county area._

_The two women who entered the Blue Door Café on that rainy night, for instance, were just looking for a phone…and maybe a place to wait for the tow truck. They had no idea…_

"I can't believe you haven't gotten your oil changed in almost a year!" Tracy Quartermaine shook herself fiercely as she pushed through the door into the foyer. Her short brown hair, besides being desperately overdue for a cut and color, was drenched, with all thought of style lay tragically waste by the thunderstorm.

"That's Alan's responsibility…" Monica began as she brushed her hands through her own mass of blonde hair as she tried to regain her composure. The walk from the car had been grueling—through almost two miles of torrential rain, bad shoes, and Tracy bitching at her all the while. "He said…"

"Alan is not your father, and you are not an irresponsible seventeen year old." Tracy cut her off, looking around for a pay phone. The hostess stand was vacant, although they could hear sounds of loud music from behind one of the several doorways that surrounded the small, rectangular foyer. The room, had either of them been in the mood to notice, was tastefully decorated in 30s deco style—refined and sophisticated and just waiting for the _glamoratti_ to arrive.

Monica grabbed Tracy's arm as she headed behind the hostess stand for a better look. "Do you have your AAA card?"

"I _told_ you, Monica, Triple-A dropped me. Something about putting too many cars in the lake, or whatever…" She shrugged off Monica, yet again. "Why don't we use yours?"

"I told you, I changed purses before we left home, and my card is in my other purse."

"Along with your cell phone…"

"We've already had this conversation, Tracy…three times…."

"Oh, wait! I remember," Tracy peeked behind the hostess stand for maybe a call button or an intercom. " _You_ own the house, but Big Strong Husband got custody of the brain!"

"This from a woman who can't remember to keep her cell battery charged—"

"It's new, and I need to buy a different recharger—where _is_ everybody?"

"You could have done it today, instead of tagging along and ticking off the contractors…" Monica reached out to stop her when Tracy started flipping through the hostess book.

"You don't truly think I was going to idly stand by and let you oversee the construction of a monument to my mother, do you?" Tracy shrugged off Monica's hand, but stayed put. There was a long moment of silence before she added. "I know it's just a gazebo in a little park, but she used to take me and Alan to that park when we were young. She loved it there, and she always donated to the beautification fund. I wanted to make sure her memorial was dignified and worthy of her," she sighed as the door to one of the rooms finally opened. "Not some K-Mart knock-off with a bike rack and advertising on the benches. _Finally_ , a drone with a phone."

"Just be nice, Tracy. Please don't get us kicked out into the rain."

"Excuse me," Tracy headed straight for the sharply dressed young woman walking towards the hostess stand. She had that look in her eye, and Monica thought it best to intervene.

"Excuse me," Monica interrupted in the most pleasant voice she could muster under the circumstances. "Could we use your phone? Our car died, and her cell is dead."

"Yes," Tracy said in a tone of overly sweet sarcasm. "Because I'm incompetent."

"Well…" the hostess began. The girl seemed to be in her mid-twenties, taller than both Monica and Tracy, with distinct features and a lanky frame. Her coal-black hair fell just below her shoulders, and her make-up was applied in a vaguely Egyptian manner to emphasize her dark brown eyes and pale skin. She wore those androgynous dark clothes that women of a certain temperament seemed to fancy, and glanced up and down for a long moment at the two drenched women before continuing. "There's a phone in the smokers lounge, but it's out of order. I can see let you use the one in the office, but it's going to be a second. Do you mind waiting in the bar?"

"Not at all," Monica said in voice of perfect sincerity. "We really appreciate it."

Tracy glared at her and rolled her eyes. "You have no _idea_ how much I need a drink."

_Coming in chapter two: Tracy learns a secret._


	2. Tracy Learns a Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm and a broken-down Beemer strand Tracy and Monica at the hottest lesbian night spot in three counties.

The dance floor was getting crowded by the time Tracy got out of the ladies' room. She really didn't want to mingle, and the main bar was packed with people. Tracy searched until she spotted a secondary bar, almost deserted, in the far corner of the room and headed toward it.  
  
Her hair, as she'd feared, was a disaster from the rain, so she'd just given in and slicked it back behind her ears. The green over-jacket was also history, a victim of too much rain and sweat, folded and tucked into her bag, leaving Tracy clad completely in black—a pair of loose fitting Chanel pants and the shell she'd worn under the jacket. With the diamonds and the monochrome effect, she presented a picture of sleek sophistication, which was a step up from the drowned feline look she'd been sporting a few minutes earlier.  
  
"Stoli Martini, one pitted olive, no pimento, and please, stir it like a civilized human being," Tracy tucked her bag under the stool and added, "It's slow in here."  
  
"It's early," the bartender said. The girl was about thirty, very thin with short-cropped red hair and freckles. She looked like a pixie, well—a pixie with several earrings up her right ear, wearing a very tight Liz Phair t-shirt and hip-huggers. "The usual crowd tends to start coming in around nine-thirty, ten o'clock, and by eleven it's elbow to elbow." She looked in the general vicinity of the office, where Monica had disappeared several minutes earlier. "Your, um, friend? Will she be having something?"  
  
Tracy rolled her eyes. "She's using the phone, and I'm pretty sure making this all my fault while she's at it. If she wants something when she gets back, she can order it herself."  
  
"Trouble in paradise, huh?" The bartender flashed her a knowing smile. "I'm Rochelle. If you need anything, I'll be absolutely right here for you."  
  
"Thank you, Rochelle," Tracy said, accepting her Stoli martini and handing her a twenty with a flourish. "Keep the change." The young woman grinned and took the bill. To be honest, Rochelle was the first service person who'd not scowled at her all day, and Tracy was actually grateful for the courtesy. The martini itself was superb, something she'd not been optimistic about, and Tracy settled back to assess the situation before Monica returned from the club's business office.  
  
There were two bars on the main floor, and Tracy had chosen the quieter of the two. The main bar was crowded with young people, as it was just off the dance floor, but this area was secluded and comfortable, with a glass partition between the actual bar and the dance floor that offered a modicum of quiet respite from the glaring synthetic noise that passed for music. According to Rochelle, the bar had theme nights—swing, C&W, techno. Tonight's theme was apparently disco, and Tracy cringed as she heard the echoes of Rose Royce extolling the virtues of working at the "Car Wash." The bartender caught her expression and laughed.  
  
"I lived through the Seventies once already," Tracy groaned as she tapped her empty martini glass for a refill. "Isn't that enough?"  
  
Rochelle started to work on her drink, saying, "The kids think it's cool. They like the retro stuff, although it irks me to hear a Bangles song on an oldies station."  
  
Tracy blinked, not getting the reference, but grateful Monica's car hadn't broken down on Headbanger Hair Band night. She founded herself nodding slightly to the funky beat, horrified to realize that she actually knew all the words to the song (a fact that no one would ever know, if Tracy had anything to do with it.) It was funny. This reminded her of her younger days, back when she was between husbands, before she'd had Dillon. She'd never been much of a disco person, back when it was popular, but the music had been difficult enough to the avoid. The harmonies and rhythms started her thinking of old times, old lovers, and more hangovers than she wanted to admit to.  
  
A stunning young woman with long brown hair and the greenest eyes came into the bar, wearing a vintage satin dress from the era—low-slung shoulders, asymmetrical hemline, perfect for discoing and Turning the Beat Around, thanks to Ms. Vicki Sue Robinson's song which had just begun playing on the loudspeaker. The girl was swaying left to right, moving her hips in a very suggestive manner as she leaned forward to order her rum and Coke. She gave Tracy a long look, up and down, slowly taking in the older woman.  
  
Tracy had to smile back at her, once she realized the young woman was actually sizing her up. The kid had backbone. That, Tracy would give her. It had been more than too long since she'd had anyone look at her like that. The thought of Luke Spencer made her frown, something the girl immediately noticed.  
  
"Stood up?" she said in a voice that sounded equally like rum and coke, only not the cola variety.  
  
"Stranded."   
  
The girl's expression brightened in a look of pure fascination, and she eased into the seat next to Tracy. Her eyes were an unnaturally bright shade of green, and she wore makeup with glitter built right in for the sleek, slutty effect. "You look like you could use a friend."  
  
"And you look like you could use a new line," Tracy responded. She was far, far beyond the time when she could be picked up by a stranger in a bar, male or female. And this little upstart, while possessed of a certain overconfident charm, looked like she had the potential to become very, very annoying after maybe ten minutes. "Buh-bye."  
  
The girl leaned forward, putting her face about three inches from Tracy's as she took the martini from the older woman's hand and took a long sip. "I'll be on the dance floor if you change your mind, Mama," she purred and sauntered out of the bar.  
  
Tracy stared at her for a long moment as it registered for the first time that there were almost no men in the bar at all. The bartender took the martini out of her hand, holding it with two fingertips as if the entire thing had been contaminated by skank cooties. "I'll get you a fresh drink," she said in a voice that spoke volume of her opinion on the woman who'd just come on to Tracy.  
  
"Thanks," Tracy murmured, still staring at the couples on the dance floor.  
  
She wondered if Monica had noticed.The dance floor was getting crowded by the time Tracy got out of the ladies' room. She really didn't want to mingle, and the main bar was packed with people. Tracy searched until she spotted a secondary bar, almost deserted, in the far corner of the room and headed toward it.  
  
Her hair, as she'd feared, was a disaster from the rain, so she'd just given in and slicked it back behind her ears. The green over-jacket was also history, a victim of too much rain and sweat, folded and tucked into her bag, leaving Tracy clad completely in black—a pair of loose fitting Chanel pants and the shell she'd worn under the jacket. With the diamonds and the monochrome effect, she presented a picture of sleek sophistication, which was a step up from the drowned feline look she'd been sporting a few minutes earlier.  
  
"Stoli Martini, one pitted olive, no pimento, and please, stir it like a civilized human being," Tracy tucked her bag under the stool and added, "It's slow in here."  
  
"It's early," the bartender said. The girl was about thirty, very thin with short-cropped red hair and freckles. She looked like a pixie, well—a pixie with several earrings up her right ear, wearing a very tight Liz Phair t-shirt and hip-huggers. "The usual crowd tends to start coming in around nine-thirty, ten o'clock, and by eleven it's elbow to elbow." She looked in the general vicinity of the office, where Monica had disappeared several minutes earlier. "Your, um, friend? Will she be having something?"  
  
Tracy rolled her eyes. "She's using the phone, and I'm pretty sure making this all my fault while she's at it. If she wants something when she gets back, she can order it herself."  
  
"Trouble in paradise, huh?" The bartender flashed her a knowing smile. "I'm Rochelle. If you need anything, I'll be absolutely right here for you."  
  
"Thank you, Rochelle," Tracy said, accepting her Stoli martini and handing her a twenty with a flourish. "Keep the change." The young woman grinned and took the bill. To be honest, Rochelle was the first service person who'd not scowled at her all day, and Tracy was actually grateful for the courtesy. The martini itself was superb, something she'd not been optimistic about, and Tracy settled back to assess the situation before Monica returned from the club's business office.  
  
There were two bars on the main floor, and Tracy had chosen the quieter of the two. The main bar was crowded with young people, as it was just off the dance floor, but this area was secluded and comfortable, with a glass partition between the actual bar and the dance floor that offered a modicum of quiet respite from the glaring synthetic noise that passed for music. According to Rochelle, the bar had theme nights—swing, C&W, techno. Tonight's theme was apparently disco, and Tracy cringed as she heard the echoes of Rose Royce extolling the virtues of working at the "Car Wash." The bartender caught her expression and laughed.  
  
"I lived through the Seventies once already," Tracy groaned as she tapped her empty martini glass for a refill. "Isn't that enough?"  
  
Rochelle started to work on her drink, saying, "The kids think it's cool. They like the retro stuff, although it irks me to hear a Bangles song on an oldies station."  
  
Tracy blinked, not getting the reference, but grateful Monica's car hadn't broken down on Headbanger Hair Band night. She founded herself nodding slightly to the funky beat, horrified to realize that she actually knew all the words to the song (a fact that no one would ever know, if Tracy had anything to do with it.) It was funny. This reminded her of her younger days, back when she was between husbands, before she'd had Dillon. She'd never been much of a disco person, back when it was popular, but the music had been difficult enough to the avoid. The harmonies and rhythms started her thinking of old times, old lovers, and more hangovers than she wanted to admit to.  
  
A stunning young woman with long brown hair and the greenest eyes came into the bar, wearing a vintage satin dress from the era—low-slung shoulders, asymmetrical hemline, perfect for discoing and Turning the Beat Around, thanks to Ms. Vicki Sue Robinson's song which had just begun playing on the loudspeaker. The girl was swaying left to right, moving her hips in a very suggestive manner as she leaned forward to order her rum and Coke. She gave Tracy a long look, up and down, slowly taking in the older woman.  
  
Tracy had to smile back at her, once she realized the young woman was actually sizing her up. The kid had backbone. That, Tracy would give her. It had been more than too long since she'd had anyone look at her like that. The thought of Luke Spencer made her frown, something the girl immediately noticed.  
  
"Stood up?" she said in a voice that sounded equally like rum and coke, only not the cola variety.  
  
"Stranded."   
  
The girl's expression brightened in a look of pure fascination, and she eased into the seat next to Tracy. Her eyes were an unnaturally bright shade of green, and she wore makeup with glitter built right in for the sleek, slutty effect. "You look like you could use a friend."  
  
"And you look like you could use a new line," Tracy responded. She was far, far beyond the time when she could be picked up by a stranger in a bar, male or female. And this little upstart, while possessed of a certain overconfident charm, looked like she had the potential to become very, very annoying after maybe ten minutes. "Buh-bye."  
  
The girl leaned forward, putting her face about three inches from Tracy's as she took the martini from the older woman's hand and took a long sip. "I'll be on the dance floor if you change your mind, Mama," she purred and sauntered out of the bar.  
  
Tracy stared at her for a long moment as it registered for the first time that there were almost no men in the bar at all. The bartender took the martini out of her hand, holding it with two fingertips as if the entire thing had been contaminated by skank cooties. "I'll get you a fresh drink," she said in a voice that spoke volume of her opinion on the woman who'd just come on to Tracy.  
  
"Thanks," Tracy murmured, still staring at the couples on the dance floor.  
  
She wondered if Monica had noticed.

  
_Coming in Chapter Three: Lemme tell ya about these straight chicks…_


	3. Lemme Tell You Bout These Straight Chicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm and a broken-down Beemer strand Tracy and Monica at the hottest lesbian night spot in three counties.

Monica stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, despairing of ever looking good again. Even with the darker color, there was something about rain storms that made her look like Morgan Fairchild on crack. She struggled to pull a brush through her mess of hair, wishing for once that she could just cut it off.

Alan would kill her if she ever did. Not that she cared what Alan thought at this moment. She sighed, shaking her head at her own reflection. She looked good enough for a woman her age, she justified. Face a bit too thin, hair not what it was, skin not what it was. But her body was still tight and she looked good in her stylish royal blue shirt and black slacks.

Well, she'd looked good before she'd trudged through a rain storm without a cell phone or an oil change or a current membership in AAA.

Alan was lucky he wasn't home, she thought as she put her brush back in her purse and headed out to find Tracy. Probably drinking herself blind at the bar, she thought unkindly.

It wasn't bad enough that Alan was not home to rescue her from his lunatic sister, Monica thought as she made her way towards the bar where Tracy had ensconced herself. No, Alan wasn’t just "not home." Alan was in the Bahamas at a medical administrator's convention, relaxing in the tropical heat, surrounded by scantily-clad women playing volleyball on the beach, no doubt _fascinated_ by the still-handsome New York doctor who was just too _happy_ to regale them with stories of his daring, life-saving exploits….

Hell, it was just too much to ask that _anybody_ would have been home. Since the storm was wreaking havoc with cell signals all over town, she'd been forced to stick to grounded lines. Not even Alice or Cook were there to pick up the phone.

She'd tried the house, the hospital, hell, she'd even gotten desperate and tried Jason, only to get his voice mail (featuring none other than Sam trying to be pleasant.) Emily was god knows where; she'd even tried Tracy's kids. Ned was off on business to Toronto (poor kid should have traded with Alan; he could have at least safely enjoyed the Nymphette Hospital Administrator Babes Gone Wild), Dillon was obviously out and not answering his phone, even Lulu had been unavailable. She'd finally called Kelly's and asked Mike to keep an eye out for Dillon and Georgie, or any other Quartermaine who happened to seek shelter from the storm.

Tracy was racking up martini glasses by the time she cut through the crowd, which was getting thicker and rowdier by the moment. She looked up expectantly when Monica arrived, then frowned when she saw her sister-in-law's expression. "Don't tell me…."

Monica collapsed onto the bar stool, pointing to the empty martini glass and motioning to the bartender that she wanted the same. "The storm has knocked out lines all over the Eastern seaboard. AAA's system is down, and they're having to manually dispatch roadside assistance."

"So have them manually dispatch some assistance…." Tracy said in that "hey, how stupid are you?" voice she used on a regular basis.

Monica counted to ten before answering. "They would _love_ to dispatch roadside assistance, but _your brother_ let my membership lapse, and they need to reinstate my coverage before they can send out a truck." She watched hungrily as the bartender stirred her martini. She was two seconds from climbing over the bar and drinking it out of the canister. "Which they can't do, because their _systems_ are down!" She took the drink right out of the girl's hand and swallowed half of it in one sip.

"That's ridiculous! Just have them send out a truck, and we'll pay out of pocket!" Tracy was already motioning for her next martini.

"They can't do that, Tracy, because their call volume is up and they have to prioritize towards current members." She downed the last of her martini in two gulps, relaxing into the familiar buzz as the alcohol hit her system.

The bartender, a cute thing with red hair and freckles, looked at the growing number of martini glasses gathering in front of them and said, "You know, we serve a full appetizer menu at the bar, if you'd like—"

"And the worst part is, not one member of our family is available to help us out." Monica shook her hand at the bartender, indicating she wanted another martini. "I mean, between us we practically have a marching band, and not _one_ of them can bother to answer a phone?"

"Did you call Dillon?"

"And Ned," she added, stretching her neck tiredly as she looked around. "Hey, it's kind of nice in here. Like the old days, huh?"

"Your old days, maybe," Tracy muttered. "Did you try Emily? She's always so very helpful."

"Why do you say 'helpful' like you mean to say 'doormat?'" She waved the bartender away, who was offering her an appetizer menu. "I mean, it's not like she's ever done anything to you."

"Besides stranding me in a rainstorm with you." Tracy shook her head slightly to the side. "Oh, wait, no. That was _you_! Sorry. My bad." She grabbed the menu off the bar, scanned it momentarily, and told the bartender, "Potatoes skins."

"I have the hospital paging Emily, and Mike is keeping an eye out for Dillon and Georgie." She hesitated before adding, "I don't suppose we should try Skye and Lorenzo, should we?"

Tracy smiled without even the slightest hint of warmth. "Only after we call Sonny Corinthos and ask him to send a limo for us." She rolled her eyes at Monica's sheepish look. "I thought so. What about calling a tow truck directly?"

"Same problem I had with AAA. There are only two companies in the immediate area and they're backed up because---ooh, I love that song!" She tilted her head as Gloria Gaynor's "I Will Survive" started up on the dance floor.

"Well, bully for you, Karaoke Kid," Tracy grumbled. "But that doesn't get us any closer to home."

"You could always call Luke…"

"And you could always bite me…"

"One order of potato skins," the bartender said.

"Jeeze, Rochelle, what did you do? Beam them in from the mother ship?" Tracy took a napkin and eased one of the thick, cheesy skins onto her plate. "Hot…"

"Our kitchen is way efficient," the bartender, who Monica now assumed was called 'Rochelle,' said. "Um, you know, if you ladies are interested, I know of one of our regulars who dates a mechanic. She usually comes in after 11, if you want to see if she can get you hooked up."

"Oh, we would be so grateful if you could introduce us," Monica said, taking one of the potato skins as well. She had to admit, Tracy had ordered wisely. If they were going to keep putting down the martinis as quickly as they had been, the carbs and grease would help them avoid getting too drunk. She took a small nibble on the edge, blowing on the skin before biting into the melted cheese and sour cream. "Oh, these are marvelous."

But Rochelle was no longer paying attention to either Tracy or Monica; she was staring at a small group of twenty-something women who had just come in from the foyer and were huddled, giggling, at the edge of the dance floor. "Aw, hell…." the bartender muttered.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing," she sighed, wiping the counter slightly as Tracy and Monica continued to eat their appetizers. "Just some stupid straight girls who like to come in and gawk." She rolled her eyes. "Brats."

Monica said nothing, but looked at Tracy, who grinned knowingly at her over her martini glass. A quick glance around the dance floor confirmed what had been niggling at the back of her scattered mind since they'd arrived—the fact that there were absolutely no men in the place. All the women were dancing with each other, either in groups or in pairs. She hadn't even noticed in her obsession with getting somebody to send out a tow truck.

"Oh, I _hate_ when straight people slum at gay bars," Tracy said in a long, conspiratorial drawl. "Don't you, Monica?"

"Oh, um, yeah…." She hid behind her potato skin, suddenly grateful that it gave her an opportunity to avoid having to think of something to say.

"Two of the little monsters caused a fight last week, and we had to call the freaking cops," Rochelle continued, glaring at the girls, who were strutting and dancing on the floor in their little giggling flock of glitter and satin disco dresses. "I mean, come on. They rule the world; why can't they just leave us alone?"

"It's down right rude, if you ask me," Tracy agreed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I don't mean to bum you ladies out."

A couple came up to the bar, two of the most stereotypically lesbian-looking individuals Monica had ever seen. She was absolutely sure she'd not seen them earlier, although the Village People leather gear and studded dog-collar accessories would have tipped her off immediately.

The darker-haired and shorter of the two tossed a twenty on the bar. "Roach, you gotta give me change."

"Lisa, I keep telling you, I don't give out change. You want quarters for the pool table, you have to buy something."

Lisa's companion, equally stocky with lighter hair and a little more height, whined in what had to be an attempt at humorous cajoling, "Aww, Rochie, you know we're buying. Just not now."

Rochelle sighed and took the twenty. "Only because we're slow tonight."

"Thanks, babe," Lisa said, leaning her back against the bar. "Didya see The Skirts are back?"

"Right on schedule. Buy something, will you?" Rochelle said as she counted her change. "You know I don't get as much in and out on this drawer as they do in the main bar." She turned to the light-haired girl. "Marcy, talk to your girlfriend. Make her buy you a drink."

Marcy was watching The Skirts, shaking her head. "Designated driver," she said without taking her eyes off the girls, who were now flirting openly with the bar's clientele. "You think they'd have something better to do with their time than come in here and cause trouble."

"Maybe we could call Lucas," Monica murmured to Tracy as she watched The Skirts along with Lisa and Marcy.

"Gee, wonder what tripped _that_ random synapse?" Tracy snorted into her drink.

"Oh, Bobbie! I could call Bobbie!"

"You are _not_ calling that woman to come rescue us!"

"Rescue you from what?" Lisa asked as Rochelle started counting out the change in Marcy's hand.

"Our car broke down, and we're having trouble getting a tow." Monica supplied, still watching the drama unfold on the dance floor, where The Skirts had already started a shouting match when one of them insinuated herself between an obviously-established couple. "Oh, did you _see_ that little tramp come on to that blonde?"

"Trouble," Lisa agreed. "Rich, bored, stupid straight chicks."

"Hey, did you tell them about Al?"

"Yeah, but she's not here yet," Rochelle said. "She and Tina don't usually make it in until after her second shift, but I'm sure she could help them."

"You ladies are all so nice," Monica said. "Would you like some potato skins?"

"Hey!" Tracy said, but didn't actually stop the girls from helping themselves. She seemed perfectly nonchalant about the whole lesbian-bar thing, Monica noticed.

"So, how long have you two been together," Marcy asked through a mouthful of potato and cheese.

Tracy and Monica exchanged glances, before Monica hedged. "Um, we met in…what was it, Tracy? Nineteen-seventy…."

"Eight. 1978 was when I came back from Europe," Tracy said, motioning for another martini. "You were dating that insipid brunette back then, weren't you?" She smiled sweetly for the benefit of the two young women, who seemed fascinated by an apparent 25-plus year relationship.

"And you'd just been dumped by that…Lady Ashton?" Monica countered without missing a beat.

"Actually, I let her down easily…" Tracy popped an olive between her teeth and smiled her sexiest smile. "Once I met you, Princess."

Monica rolled her eyes, but had to grin as well. "That's _Doctor_ Princess to you, wench," she remarked as she downed the last of her martini.

"Oh, man, what is _she_ doing here?" Marcy had turned to indicate a dark-haired woman who was coming into the bar.

"Hold on to your wives, ladies," Lisa said under her breath.

"Hey, you're still here," the girl said, easing right up to Tracy. "I was hoping you'd be here."

"Hey!" Monica started as the woman, who'd obviously been partaking of massive amounts of alcohol, leaned over and gazed into Tracy's eyes.

"Hey, Leticia, she's taken, or maybe you haven't noticed the wedding rings?" Rochelle said.

Monica lifted her left hand, and reached out to grab Tracy's as well. "Since 1978, kid, so just move along."

Leticia assessed the situation, which was four very annoyed-looking women between her and her conquest for the evening, then smirked and left.

Tracy just stared at Monica, who could have crawled under the bar. "Why, Princess, you still care!" She took Monica's hand as she stood, and led her out to the dance floor. "Dance with me, you mad, jealous fool."

As they stumbled towards the floor, Monica grumbled something about Tracy getting all the girls, to which Tracy responded, "Guess the kd lang look goes a lot further here than the Morgan Fairchild look." At Monica's insulted look, she added, "But you'll always be beautiful to me, Princess," before swinging her into a dance to "More, More, More."

Monica shrugged, giving in to the madness (and the multiple martinis). It was just going to be that kind of night.

_Coming in Chapter Four: Dancing Through Life_


	4. Dancing Through Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm and a broken-down Beemer strand Tracy and Monica at the hottest lesbian night spot in three counties.

_Oh, yes, it's Ladies' Night, and the feeling's right. Oh, yes, it's Ladies' Night, oh what a night._

Tracy had to admit, Monica was a pretty good dancer, once she got that stiff poker out of her butt. The beat felt great, and she allowed herself the luxury of closing her eyes and dancing like she hadn't done in years. She felt the energy of the women around her, the lights flashing in that seizure-inducing way she remembered from back in the day, and it was…fun.

"Mmmmm.. Sophisticated Mama, come on, you disco lady!" Monica sang along, and they both began to laugh at the absurdity of their situation.

Tracy watched as her sister-in-law began to do the hustle, tugging at Tracy's arms to join her. It was sad, truly sad, that Tracy actually remembered the steps. She joined in—and before long, they were totally in sync, and Tracy was enjoying herself in a way she hadn't done in years.

By the time the music had switched to "Shame," the two Quartermaine women were drawing a crowd of admiring young women. It devolved into a competition between them, each demonstrating more difficult moves that the other immediately followed, until they were garnering yells and whistles and applause from the crowd. Tracy wished their family could see them, that they could see that even she had a fun side.

But that was not really realistic, she realized as the music slowed and they were suddenly standing awkwardly opposite each other. "Tired," she asked, and Monica nodded gratefully. They headed back toward the bar, but Monica stopped her short, pulling her into a dance as she turned her away from the bar.

"What?"

Monica pulled her close, so she could whisper loudly in her ear. "The Skirts. I just got a close look at one of them." She started leading, turning Tracy so she could see the girls. "The redhead in the blue tee. Don't you recognize her?"

"Um, no." Tracy struggled to take the lead back. She hated dancing backwards.

"It's Alesha Montgomery."

Tracy stared blankly.

Monica rolled her eyes. "Katherine Montgomery's daughter? Katherine Montgomery, member of the Charitable Foundation, the hospital Board of Directors, the Port Charles chapter of the DAR…. _that_ Katherine Montgomery."

"Oh. _That_ Katherine Montgomery," Tracy repeated. She looked over her shoulder. The future of the Montgomery clan was apparently having fun doing a modified lambada with some poor unsuspecting sporty dyke. "So?"

Monica shook her head, her jaw dropping slightly as she sighed. "So, what if she sees us?"

Tracy paused, a thought forming in her head. Then she grinned. "C'mon," she said, taking Monica by the hand and leading her to the bar. The Skirts didn't notice them as they joined Rochelle, Lisa and Marcy at the bar. "Do either of you ladies happened to have a camera phone?" Tracy asked.

"I do." Lisa whipped her phone from her fanny pack and handed it to Tracy.

She could hear the concern in Monica's voice. "Tracy, what are you doing?"

"What I do best," Tracy said, and turned around to head straight for The Skirts. "Watch and learn, ladies. Watch and learn."

_Coming in Chapter Five: Don't Mess with the Quartermaine Babes._


	5. Don't Mess with the Quartermaine Babes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm and a broken-down Beemer strand Tracy and Monica at the hottest lesbian night spot in three counties.

Alesha Montgomery hated this little burg of a town. She was meant for bigger and better things, and as soon as her last bag was packed and she was off to Columbia, she was determined never to step foot in Port Charles again.

This dive was just another example of the _bourgeois_ attitude she was more than eager to leave behind—the little lesbians with their little club thinking they were _so_ cosmopolitan. It was nothing to come in, have a few drinks, break a few hearts—just a little bit of fun to drive away the tedium--till the dykes get all pissed off and call the cops.

She didn't really care about getting busted last time. She'd had enough clout just flashing her name to get out of too much trouble, and most cops could be swayed with a couple hundred and a blow job not to even file the paperwork. But it had ruined the little fun she could eke out of this small-town nightmare, and that pissed her off. These bitches were going to wish they'd never seen her face.

Caitlin and Meagan were fun enough, but they didn't have the balls to really go for it with the little pervs. She had her eyes on one in particular, this Martina Navratilova wannabe in cargo pants and a tank top who had been staring at her since she walked in. It was easy enough to get her to dance, and before long, Alesha was making out like crazy with the lez.

She was just about to get the girl really worked up when she felt a tap on her shoulder. Ohmigawd, it was kd lang's rich grandmother, dressed all in black with the most fabulous diamonds Alesha had seen since Grandma Montgomery cacked it. She stared for a moment as the older woman nudged Martina to the side and insinuated herself into Alesha's arms for a dance. She smelled incredible, and for the first time since she'd started coming here, Alesha was nervous.

This was a lesbian who meant business. She smiled, and Alesha could have sworn she saw fangs.

"Come here often," the woman asked, her eyes focused on Alesha like a piece of particularly tasty raw meat.

"Enough," she choked before she remembered who she was and pulled herself back together. This old dyke might be made of money, but she was still a freak and that made her less than--less than worthy, less than human, less than Alesha in every way. "Nice necklace," she said in a sultry tone. "I wouldn't have taken you for the femme type."

The older dyke pulled her closer. The scent of Shalimar was subtle, but powerful, and Alesha felt herself react for the briefest of moments, which really pissed her off. Who did this woman think she was?

"I sort of defy type, to be honest," the woman said in a voice that meant business. Her hands were all over Alesha, nothing overt but completely undeniable. Alesha resisted the urge to squirm, to struggle, to pull away. Under no circumstances was she going to let herself be intimidated by Billie Jean King here.

"I thought you were here with somebody."

"She's elsewhere. I'm Tracy."

"Uh, Alesha," she coughed as Tracy pulled her into a hard embrace and then dipped her fiercely.

"Why are you wasting your time here? It's plainly obvious that you're slumming." Tracy had her lips just next to Alesha's ears, her breath hot and sweet. "You deserve a woman of standing, someone from your own social level." Alesha felt Tracy's tongue tracing her ear lobes. "Someone like me. I have a penthouse just a few blocks from here."

"Really?" Alesha couldn't keep the surprise from her voice. "In _this_ neighborhood?"

"It's discreet," Tracy said, as if that explained everything. Alesha had mental images of torrid flings, sleazy pick-ups, anything this woman could buy or intimidate or seduce into her bed. The older woman brought her back to the present with a hand on her ass. "Who are we kidding? I want you. You want me." She locked gazes with Alesha, and the younger woman suddenly got an idea what a gazelle felt like when a lioness started looking like it was suppertime. "Spend the night with me, Alesha. Let me show you the universe."

"Whoa," she said, pulling herself out of the older woman's arms. "Sorry, Grandma, but I'm no dyke." Her voice was hard and cruel, and Alesha actually relished the thought of watching this pushy broad crumble to her knees. Who the hell did she think she was, coming on to her? Daring to think they were on the same social level, just because the bitch had money! "And even if I were, I'd never sleep with someone as old as you."

Instead of looking crushed, the old dyke just laughed. She folded her arms across her chest, shaking her head. "Oh, dear! _You're not a lesbian_?" The smile faded, and the lioness suddenly didn't look so much hungry as angry. Her voice came out hard as nails. "Well, neither am I, Cookie. What I am, however, Alesha Montgomery, is a friend of your parents."

There was a long silence between them as Alesha felt the ground disintegrate beneath her. She tried to hide it, but this woman seemed to have extrasensory perception when it came to fear.

"I'm also on the board at General Hospital, as well as several charitable foundations your mother participates in." She whipped out a camera phone and flipped it open to reveal a picture of Alesha sticking her tongue down the Martina wannabe's throat. "I'm also really, really good at blackmail."

"Fuck."

"Not tonight, dear, and not ever. However, unless you want this little .jpg file to be spammed to every mailing list your mommy frequents, I suggest you grab your pathetic little friends and find another bar to target. Because if I ever find out that you're causing my friends trouble, I will put this picture on a billboard in the middle of Port Charles with the slogan 'Mrs. Montgomery's Little Girl is a Gay-Bashing Slut.'' Tracy smiled again, and this time Alesha did see fangs as thoughts of Columbia, her trust fund, and her freedom all burst up in flames. "Are we clear, sweetie?"

"Oh…my..god!" Alesha tried to put on a brave front, but every instinct in her body told her to run screaming from the room. "Are you seriously threatening me?" She pushed away from Tracy, her voice getting louder by the moment. "Because if you think you can hurt me, Grandma, you are out of your mind."

"Oh, puhlease," came the smooth, almost bored reply. "Threats are for amateurs. I guarantee you that if you cause so much as a peep in this fine establishment ever again…" Tracy had closed the gap between them once more, and even though she was actually an inch or two taller than the older woman, Alesha began to feel smaller and smaller with each word, especially as a crowd began to gather around them. "Believe me, little girl, I will make you wish you were dead. I spread troublemakers like you on my toast every morning. And if you think it stops with you, think again." The smile turned ferocious, and this time Alesha actually did step back in fear. "Your father. Your mother. Your school, your church, your boyfriend, your fifth grade math teacher—everybody you ever knew, everybody you ever loved, will know what a pathetic, homophobic, asinine little thing you are. You will spend decades living down the humiliation I will rain down upon you like the hand of the goddess. Are we clear, Miss Montgomery? Are we absolutely crystal clear what will happen to you if you ever mess with these ladies again?"

"Um…yeah. Perfectly," Alesha said weakly. Caitlin and Meagan had inched a little closer, but not too close, when the scene got out of hand. Now, mustering as much bravado as she could manage with a room full of lesbians glaring at her, Alesha turned her friends and said, "Let's get the hell out of here."

She swore she heard cheering as they practically ran out of the door.>

_Coming in Chapter Six: The Car Gets Fixed…For a Price_


	6. The Car Gets Fixed…For a Price

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm and a broken-down Beemer strand Tracy and Monica at the hottest lesbian night spot in three counties.

"Oh…my god!" Marcy and Lisa were practically screaming when Tracy returned, triumphant, to the bar.

"Ohmigod," Marcy continued, collapsing on to the bar stool next to the ones Tracy and Monica had reclaimed. "That was the most amazing thing I've ever seen in my life."

"This is nothing." Monica motioned to Rochelle for a refill on their martinis. Hell, they weren't going to be driving any time tonight, and watching Tracy work always made her…thirsty. "You should see her when she gets mean." She reached for her wallet, but Rochelle stopped her.

"These are so on the house," the bartender said. Her face was flushed with excitement as a crowd of lesbians crowded around to pat Tracy on the back. "I can't believe she got those girls to leave."

"Tracy has a way of making people want to leave the room," Monica admitted as she watched her sister-in-law bask in the glow of female admiration. "But even she has her moments of brilliance."

"So, is it true?" Lisa's voice had an almost childlike tone to it, sad and tinged with disbelief. "You _aren't_ lesbians?"

Monica felt guilty as she took the free martini from Rochelle, who was also waiting for an answer along with Lisa and Marcy. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have lied, but we…"

"Oh, come on," Tracy said as the last of her new fan club headed back to the dance floor. She grabbed the martini Rochelle had made for her, and took a sip. "You were gun-shy. The last thing you needed was a couple of straight women cramping your style. We didn't mean any harm."

"But…"

Marcy picked up where Lisa left off. The butch young woman seemed too depressed to speak. "It's just that, well, it was so nice to meet a lesbian couple who've been together as long as you have. As long as we thought you had been…." she corrected.

"We actually did meet in 1978," Tracy said through a sip of martini.

"It was hate at first sight."

"She married my brother."

"She tried to ruin my life."

Tracy smiled at her sister-in-law, then shrugged. "We have a history."

The three young women stared at them for a long moment, then just shook their heads.

"What a trip," Lisa murmured, and ordered a beer.

"So you're _not_ lesbians," Marcy asked, still obviously clinging to hope.

"Sorry," Monica said. "Not a gay bone in my body."

"I've experimented," Tracy admitted, tapping the bar as she drained her glass. "Why is my glass empty, Roach?"

"Coming up."

"You've _experimented_?" Monica turned to the wide-eyed young women and shrugged. "This is news to me."

"Hello? All-girl boarding school? What was I supposed to do? Study?" Tracy rolled her eyes and turned back to watch the dancing. "Who wants to dance?"

"I heard somebody needed help with a broken-down Beemer?"

Monica and Tracy turned to see Alice, dressed in a white Saturday Night Fever pantsuit, leaning over the bar. "Alice???"

"Hey, Al! You made it!" Lisa stood up to hug Alice, patting her on the shoulder as she did so. "Where's Tina? You guys missed all the excitement."

"She had to work early shift tomorrow at the plant. Hey, Dr. Q. Hey, Miss Tracy," Alice said nonchalantly as she motioned to Rochelle. "Regular, Roach?"

"One Shirley Temple, double cherries, on the rocks, coming up."

"You're 'Al'?" Monica gasped.

"Al's famous here," Marcy said with a grin. "You know these ladies, Al?"

"Sure, I do." She nodded to Monica. "Dr. Q." Then she nodded to Tracy. " _Miss Tracy_."

Marcy, Lisa and Rochelle all turned and stared at Tracy, eyes wide.

"What?" Tracy said. When the three girls said nothing, she repeated, "What?"

"Nothing," Marcy said. For the first time, she looked…nervous.

Tracy let loose a heavy sigh, turning her attention back to 'Al.' "So, you can fix the Beemer?" she asked.

"Miss Tracy, I can build a Beemer with my Erector set." She took the Shirley Temple from Rochelle, downing it in a single gulp. "Give me something to challenge me, willya?"

"Oh, Alice, that's wonderful." Monica could see her night finally coming to an end, and all of a sudden she felt exhausted. "I can't wait to get home."

"Hey, I'm off the clock," Alice grumbled, leaning back against the bar to watch the dancers. "I come here to relax. What makes you think I want to go out in this storm and work on your car?" She shook her head. "I told Dr. Alan to have the oil checked, although if that's what happened, you're probably going to have to have it towed."

"Alice!"

"Look, it's probably just the wires on the battery. I noticed they were jiggling when I looked under the hood last week…" Alice took the second Shirley Temple Rochelle handed her.

"Alice, we're tired and we're drunk and we'd really like to get home some time tonight," Monica complained. "I'll pay you overtime. Please, Alice. Please, will you help us get the car started?"

"Well, you can't drive home like this." She turned to Rochelle and pointed to Tracy. "This one drinks like a fish. How many martinis did she have?"

"Hey! Monica was drinking, too!"

"Too many to be a designated driver," Rochelle admitted.

Tracy frowned at her. "Fink," she muttered.

"Here's what I'll do, Dr. Q. I'll drive you and Miss Tracy back to the QMansion in my pick-up…" She paused as Tracy let out a sarcastic "Ha!" Then she added, "Then I'll drive back to the Beemer, check under the hood, and see what I can do. I'm sure I can get Mr. Luke to come with me."

"You're not going anywhere with my husband," Tracy warned just as Leticia sidled up to her.

"Husband?" The girl gave her a hard look, then picked up Alice's drink and threw it in Tracy's face. "You bitch!"

"Hey!" Alice was between them in a second as Tracy geared up for a full-fledged barroom brawl. "Leave her alone." Marcy and Lisa each grabbed one of Leticia's arms, walking her quickly away from seething woman as Rochelle hurried to hand Tracy a stack of napkins.

"Alice, can we please get out of here before Tracy gets us all killed?"

"Me? She started it!"

"Wait one minute, Dr. Q. I said I'd drive you home, but I'm not on your time clock. You want my help, I expect to be compensated for my time. Basically, what I want to know is, what's in it for me?"

Monica sighed hard. "Oh, of course. Here it comes. The shakedown. How much is it going to cost me to get you to get us home?"

Alice moved in closed to Monica, towering above her as a slow smile spread across her face. "Not money, Dr. Q."

"What else is there?"

Alice waggled her eyebrows. "One dance. With you."

Tracy began to laugh. "Well, there you go, Dr. Not a Gay Bone in My Body. Pay up, so we can go home."

Alice shook her head. "Not her, Miss Tracy." She leveled a sultry look at the brunette. "With you."

Tracy gulped, her entire body stiffening as she saw the look of lust in the housekeeper's eyes.

"Well," Monica laughed. "There you go, Miss Hello? All-Girl Boarding School! Pay up, so we can go home."

Tracy rolled her eyes, grabbing Alice by the arm as she led her to the dance floor. "Oh, what the hell. Let's get this over with."

"Uh-uh…" Alice said. "Not this song," she said, motioning across the floor to the DJ, who nodded and switched the discs. The hard-pumping dance beat mellowed slowly into a slow, sexy rhythm as Donna Summer started singing, "Love to Love You Baby." "This song," she said, pulling Tracy in close.

Tracy stiffened, then relaxed in Alice's arms as the dance began in earnest. "So," she murmured into the polyester jacket Alice wore. "I take it this means I don't have to worry about you sleeping with my husband?"

Alice laughed and spun her around. "You're safe there, Miss Tracy."

Tracy nodded as the towering woman dipped her and twirled her back into her arms. "Good."

***

It was well after midnight when Tracy and Monica finally stumbled back into the mansion. Both were exhausted, bedraggled, and happy to be home.

They saw Skye sitting on the couch, reading a book, and just shook their heads at each other. "Where have you two been?"

Monica looked at Tracy, and Tracy looked back at her, and they both just shook their heads.

"We were at a lesbian bar, disco dancing and getting in bar fights," Tracy said without inflection.

"Alice rescued us."

Skye slammed her book shut and glared at the two women. "You know, if it's none of my business, just say so. You don't have to make up stories." With that, she stormed out of the room.

"She's exhausting, isn't she?" Monica said.

"Completely."

"I am going to take a hot shower and go straight to bed."

"Wonderful idea," Tracy agreed as they headed for the stairwell. "That was fun," she said as they both began ascending to the second floor.

"We should do it again sometime," Monica suggested.

There was a long pause as both women considered it. Then, at the same time, they both said, "Naah…."

The End


End file.
